American Horror Story - Season 1-5 E10 - Ghost World
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 10: Season 1.5 is nearing its end & things are heating up inside Murder House as the darkness spreads. Rubber Man's back with a vengeance, ghosts are disappearing with alarming frequency & the mansion's new owner could be the worst monster yet. Bizarre sex, death & insanity are what's on the menu. Not for the squeamish! Written in the style of show. Features full cast.
1. Chapter 1 - Bodies, Alive & Dead

This is **Episode 10** of American Horror Story season 1.5 - Murder House Revisited. If you haven't already, you should probably read the previous episodes or you may be confused. Check my Profile to find them.

* * *

**2018 - October 1**

Patrick watched the delivery men unload another oblong, sheet-covered object from the moving van. It was the first of several that would arrive over the next month. It had been a few years since Murder House had a new occupant. Several of the ghosts had successfully scared off the last family who had purchased it but that was when things were calmer in the house. Pat seriously doubted the Harmons could pull their shit together enough to orchestrate another bio-exorcism now.

While the moving men carried the bulky object into the house, Patrick headed down to the truck for a look inside. The contents within resembled a shipment bound for a warehouse: Almost everything within was large and covered in sheets. He was curious to know what was under those sheets. There was something oddly compelling about the mystery and before he was consciously aware of what he was doing, he was in the back of the van.

He moved over to the nearest sheet-covered item and lifted up a corner. Beneath was a glass display case, the kind one typically saw in museums. It had a single shelf lined in dark navy blue velvet but was otherwise empty. Disappointed, Pat moved to the next covered object. It was upright but just as long as the first. He lifted the sheet and found something that surprised him.

It was another display case but it wasn't empty. It contained the mummified remains of a human. The person was still wearing clothes, though they were tattered and yellow with age. Old western style clothing that looked authentic; straight out of the wild west. There was a bullet hole right where the heart would be. The mummy was well-preserved but his skin looked like yellow wax. His hair had suffered over the years and had a yellowish tinge as well but was remarkably still attached to his scalp. The dead man's lips had dried and curled back from his yellowed teeth in a permanent grimace.

Heavy steps on the lift gate behind him alerted Patrick that the movers were returning and he let the sheet drop. The movers crowded in and, to avoid an uncomfortable pass-through, Pat tried to get out of their way. But they headed straight for the covered display case he'd looked at first and he got crowded right out of the van.

He backed out and slipped, falling to the street with an embarrassing lack of coordination. He picked himself up, dusted off, and then realized he was out in the street. Patrick glanced about. He was almost in the center of the paved road. He hadn't been sent back into the house. Curious all over again, he started to walk. And he kept walking.

Though it wasn't Halloween, he found he could move freely. And he took full advantage of it.

**...**

**2018 - Halloween night**

To say that Nick Carver was pissed off would have been the understatement of the year. He was livid; beside himself with bottled-up resentment. For three hours past sundown he and his troupe of paranormal experts collectively known as Mission: Paranormal had explored Murder House, top to bottom, and they had nothing to show for it. Nothing unusual happened. There wasn't even an atmospheric rain storm like last time. Forget unexplained photos or bizarre injuries; it was as dead as a museum after visiting hours and not nearly as creepy.

Travis and Elizabeth had tagged along with the show's host, trying without success to come up with something that the ghost hunters could document for their return visit. But with more than half of the house's resident ghosts out for the night and another quarter missing completely, there wasn't much that the pair could do to stir things up. They messed with the lighting and the electronic gadgets and Travis even got bold enough to swipe one of their laptops. But those minor incidents were too easily explained away by the team.

After a long night of no excitement, the crew decided to pack it in. Despite its fearsome reputation and gory legends of horror, Murder House had delivered the dullest episode of Mission: Paranormal ever. It was almost as bad as when Geraldo Rivera opened Al Capone's overhyped vault on live television only to find the thing completely empty.

"Well, folks," Nick said to his crew during the post-show circle on the front lawn. "This trip was a bust. But we're already booked to do the Queen Mary next Halloween. I hear that place is active no matter what time you go."

"Isn't that the Titanic's sister ship?" asked Albert. He'd found and brought his umbrella hat as a precaution and a tribute to his friend, Lisa, who'd refused to come to the house a second time. And naturally he hadn't needed it.

"Yes, it is," said Nick. "Several people have died in it over the years, starting with guys on the crew that built it. One guy was crushed in one of those water-tight hatch doors when the mechanism mysteriously triggered right while he was crossing the threshold. I also heard that the skeletal remains of two of the builders were recently found in a portion of the hull where lots of people reported hearing banging sounds."

"Aww," said Wade. "Too bad we couldn't have filmed there before they found the bodies. Mysterious banging would make great footage."

"Agreed," said Nick. "But if what I've heard about the place is correct, we'll still have plenty to work with." He turned a disgusted look on Murder House. "Come on, folks. This place is a dead cell."

**...**

**░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░**

**...**

**2008**

"Your being here lets me know you're sincere," Ambrose said to the young woman he let into his rented house. "But I always make a video record of your intentions beforehand. I find it serves well to weed out volunteers who aren't truly serious."

The woman was dressed in a simple white angora sweater and pleated brown skirt. She had dishwater blonde hair she'd dip-dyed light blue at the ends. She smiled nervously, both hands gripping the small overnight bag she carried. "Of course. I understand." She was nervous and it made her speak softly.

"You understand there will be no pain killers," he went on as he led her down the hall. He wasn't trying to scare her. He just wanted to be sure that she fully understood what she was signing on for. "And once we start, there will be no chance to change your mind."

She nodded and felt a prickle of sweat. She was nervous but excited as well. Just hearing him talk about what was going to happen made her wet down below. "I understand," she said again. She flashed him a quick smile.

She'd never been attracted to older men but Abernathy Ambrose was different. They'd met online through a website and from their first emails she'd been enchanted. He was so smooth, so intelligent and sincere. She almost believed she loved him. But theirs was an attraction far more base and vile than that. She would never actually call it love.

He led her into a small bedroom that he'd converted into a studio. There was a long white canvas hung on one wall in front of which a stool was positioned and in front of that was a video camera on a tripod. Two photo lights shielded by umbrellas threw pale white light over the makeshift staging area.

"Go ahead and set your stuff down and have a seat," Ambrose said as he moved to stand behind the camera.

She followed his instructions. She found it hard to see him once she was seated on the stool, thanks to the lights. He was just a dark shadow that melded with the camera. He fiddled with the settings then hit the record button.

"State your name and age for the camera, please," he instructed.

She cleared her throat. "I'm- My name is Laura Holmes. I'm twenty-four years old."

"And why are you here, Laura?"

She thrilled at the way he said her name. "I'm here because I want to be your Dolcett girl." She got a rash of goose bumps saying that and her nipples pressed against the satin lining of her bra.

"You're here of your own free will?"

She smiled. "Yes."

"Are you having second thoughts?" asked Ambrose. "This won't be like the role play we've done online. This is for real."

Her smile grew wider and more radiant. "I'm absolutely committed to this."

"Why?"

Laura shifted on the stool and licked her lips. "I've always wanted to do this. Ever since I hit puberty I've fantasized about it."

"You're not afraid?"

She laughed a nervous laugh. "I am but it's a good sort of afraid. It's what I wanted to feel."

"Excellent," he said. "That's good. Beautiful."

He switched off the camera and the lights. "The bathroom is the second door on the right," he said. "Go shower and shave any body hair below the neck. Please don't use any deodorants or perfumes afterward. When you're done, head to the room at the far end of the hall. Last door on the left."

She nodded. They'd already been over this before, through email, but she understood his need to be thorough. She did as he instructed and the whole time she was in the bathroom her heart was racing. This was it. This was really it.

When Laura emerged from the steamy bathroom she was clean and shaven. She felt like she was stepping into a dream; a really bizarre and psychedelic dream. She headed for the last door on the left and her heart really started to pound. It wasn't fear exactly but there was a certain amount of dread to her excitement. It fed the strange beast within her that craved this thing she'd set herself up for. She paused just outside the open doorway, one hand clutching her gray fluffy bathrobe closed.

She could still back out now. Once she crossed the threshold she knew there would be no turning back but she could leave now. It was dizzying, having so much control over her future. It was empowering. She took a step forward and felt like the Damacles sword had come down, slicing into her twisted Gordian knot of a life. It wasn't a perfect feeling but the relief that came with it made everything worth it.

He was waiting for her in a large bed. He was wearing a robe as well, one of those old smoking jackets made of red and black embroidered silk. It reminded her of something she'd seen Vincent Price wear in one of his many movies but she couldn't remember which one. The bed was large and well-appointed with generous pillows and expensive-looking linens. But closer inspection of the bed showed unusual bits and pieces: O-rings in the headboard, hooks on the tall ornamental poles that spiked the headboard. Above the bed and bolted to the ceiling was a black rectangular metal setup that featured all kinds of dangling hardware.

"Come over here," he said with a smile that belied what they both knew was coming.

...

Ambrose was close to orgasm. He pulled the rope hard, again and again, lifting the girl high up before letting gravity pull her back down again. The force with which she was landing hurt his hips but he ignored the pain. No pain, no gain. He yanked the rope harder and the noose hauled Laura up by her neck so high she almost popped right off his cock. She didn't make a sound. She'd died several minutes ago. He wasn't exactly sure when she'd stopped making noise. He didn't care. When her corpse landed that final time he shot his load up into her and let her lifeless body sag to the side.

His heart pounded a lively rhythm and he basked in the feeling of vitality that coursed through him. When his breathing slowed to normal he rolled her further away. Her hands were dark red from the tightness of the zip tie he'd bound them with. He didn't care. He never used the hands after his dolls were dead.

...

He had a late supper. He lit a single taper candle to honor the romantic evening he'd spent with Laura. He had sautéed her best parts in Marsala wine and garlic. She tasted even more beautiful than she'd looked while she was dying during intercourse. Young and tender, unpolluted by street drugs or the disgusting chemicals grocery store meat contained. He wished they were all so pure.

He ate what he could. The rest he would dissolve in hydrochloric acid in the basement tub. He didn't like keeping leftovers. It wasn't just a matter of security: The meat tasted best when it was fresh. Frozen or even refrigerated, it lost its richness. It lost the vitality he craved so much. He would rather wait and find a new Dolcett girl than eat old meat. With the help of the internet, finding partners who would submit to such treatment made it so easy he could afford to be finicky.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

"A dead cell" is what the head investigator in Stephen King's _Rose Red_ called the haunted house. One of the psychics she took with her scoffed and told her "Yeah, to someone who's not psychic."

Dolcett is one of the sickest fetishes I've ever had the misfortune to discover. It's named after some internet troll who used to love posting bizarre illustrations of his sick fantasies. Thanks to said internet, the loner's fascination with the subject of death + sex has devolved to new depraved depths. There have been a couple of folks who've made the news (both cases that I know of were in Germany) after they were caught by police consuming their victims. One videotaped the whole process, including his interview with the volunteer victim he'd met on Craigslist. Some people will do anything - anything! - for a thrill.

I do not condone this sort of activity. When I thought up Ambrose, I had to stretch my imagination to find something even more monstrous than anything else Murder House has thrown at us. This is coming around to the grand finale after all. And I have to keep pace with Brad Falchuk and Ryan Murphy where it comes to hair-grabbing 'OMG! Noooo!' moments - which is no small order.

Next chapter: Rubber Man's back and he's up to new tricks. Constance meets the house's new owner. Nikki finally catches up with Patrick after he stood her up on Halloween. All this and much more is coming at you soon!


	2. Chapter 2 - Predators & Prey

**...**

**2018 - November 1**

Patrick shifted as sleep peeled slowly away. Something had disturbed him but he wasn't sure what. He could tell without opening his eyes that it was well into morning but the sunlight filtering in through the curtains wasn't what woke him. He shifted again. He could feel Tate nearby. At the teen's request Pat had let him sleep in his bed after last night's chaos. But the truth was the man liked waking up with someone beside him, though he wasn't likely to tell anyone who might care.

He stretched a little and reached to put his arm over the teen but his hand bumped into something that was not Tate. It was warm and rubbery. Pat opened his eyes immediately and what he saw came as a shock.

Tate was lying beside him and Rubber Man was straddling the youth. Before Patrick could make another move the thing stretched and sucked itself up toward the ceiling like a freakish black yo-yo. Its arms elongated as it did, staying connected to Tate. Then the arms snapped upward, hauling the blond teen up out of the bed. The sudden motion should have woken him but it didn't. Quick as a blink Tate disappeared into the shadows of the ceiling along with Rubber Man. Patrick stared.

"Tate!" he hollered.

There was no answer. He tried again, this time sending only the psychic urge that he and Chad relied on when they wanted the boy to join them. Seconds slid by with aggravating slowness. Patrick stood on the bed in an attempt to get closer to the ceiling but there was nothing up there but the painted surface and the shadows.

His bedroom door opened and Chad stuck his head in, looking cross. "What's going on?"

Patrick hopped down off the bed and was beside him in an instant. "That thing. The rubber suit. It's taken Tate!"

Chad looked confused now as well as irritated. "Taken Tate? What are you talking about? I thought you burned that thing."

"We did!" said Patrick. "I don't know how it came back but it did and it has Tate."

"Is it Ben?"

Pat frowned. "I don't know."

He wasn't sure whether he hoped it was Ben or not. He focused his thoughts on the therapist, sending the man the same urging as he had sent Tate - with the same results.

"If they're in this house," said Chad with grim certainty. "I'll find them."

"How?"

Chad smiled. It was a tiny smile loaded with dry self-confidence. He didn't bother answering but got an intense look on his face. The walls trembled and creaked. His form flickered and then absorbed into the floor like a fast melting snowman.

Patrick had never seen him do that before. The mansion groaned from deep within, a sound it might make if it was settling naturally. But there was nothing natural about it. Chad was one with the house and he was on the hunt.

…

**An hour later…**

"Where were you last night?"

Nikki's irritation sliced through Patrick's anxiety with the force of a machete. He had been impatiently biding his time in the room Ben claimed as his office, hoping either he or Chad would show up. But it was the dark-haired dominatrix that did. And she was pissed off.

"Something came up," Pat said.

She came over to where he was sitting on the long sofa and looked down at him, her hands on her hips. "You could have told us! We were waiting for hours before we finally gave up."

"I'm sorry. Things were pretty crazy last night."

Nikki wasn't listening. "And what the hell is up with that boundary thing? I tried to leave today and got thrown right back here. You said it was open!"

She was starting to wear on his nerves. He wasn't in the mood to be bitched at. "It_ was_."

"Well it's not now," said Nikki, folding her arms. "The furthest we can go now is the house next door. Why is that?"

Patrick ran a hand through his hair to suppress the urge to shove her back from his personal space. "I don't know," he growled. "Now back the fuck off. I've got bigger things to worry about right now."

She slapped him then. He wasn't expecting it and so he didn't move to block. She could tell by the look on his face that she'd gone too far. He surged to his feet and she took a step back but he grabbed her by the throat and pulled her close, practically nose to nose.

"You don't touch me unless I say you can," he growled.

She gagged. She couldn't breathe and her belief said she needed to. She pried at his fingers but he was much stronger than she was. "Sorry!" she managed to get out.

He let go, shoving her at the same time. She stumbled backward and fell. Her hand flew to her throat and she massaged the reddened area where he'd choked her. Then she started to cry.

Patrick felt a tiny twinge of guilt but he was still mad. It would be very easy to pump all his anxiety about Tate and Chad into breaking her to pieces. It would feel good, torturing her. His biceps twitched and he flexed his fingers as the urge to grab her coursed through him. It was the house, he told himself. It was urging him to hurt her.

"Get out of here," he grumbled and forced himself to turn away.

She vanished. His shoulders released tension and he drew a deep breath, releasing it in a ragged sigh. Then he sat back down on the sofa to wait.

...

**2018 - November 1, mid-morning**

Constance let herself in through the kitchen of the old Victorian and was surprised to see new things in it. She'd been so preoccupied with her son and his problems that she'd forgotten the moving van that had been by to deliver things. The house had a new family in it.

Like all of the families who purchased Murder House, the current owner had appointed the kitchen with tasteful items backed by plenty of money. The dishes were all elegant behind the glass cabinet doors. She couldn't help noticing the tray of silver teaspoons, each with a different handle. Some looked old, some were recently polished. She lifted one, amazed by the detail of the owl that perched on the top of the handle. The eyes looked like they might be real rubies.

She was about to slip the spoon into her bra when Moira appeared in the doorway, dour and dowdy and frowning. "That doesn't belong to you."

Constance lifted her chin. "Everything in this house belongs to me."

Moira's frown darkened. "The house has a new owner now. You can't just come in here anytime you like."

"Watch me," the blonde said loftily. Then, to add further insult she said: "What, are you hopin' he's goin' to dig up your bones for you?" She laughed, short and derisively.

"He will!" Moira fumed. "He's already said he's going to have the gazebo torn down!"

"And then what?" said Constance. She had nothing to fear from the maid's body being discovered now. She couldn't go to jail. But she still didn't believe it would happen. "Are you goin' to get him a dowsin' rod that detects the corpses of harlots? That's about the only way you and that other cheatin' bitch are ever gonna see the light of day."

"Moira? Who've you let in?"

The owner of the baritone voice was a well-built man of older years with long gray hair and an aura of masculinity that made Constance's heart flutter when she saw him in the doorway. She donned her most winsome smile.

"It's your neighbor, Constance Langdon," Moira said tersely, glaring daggers at the woman. "I didn't let her in. She let herself in."

"Hi there," said Constance, setting the spoon down. "Sorry if I'm intrudin'. The previous owners and I were the closest of friends. They were practically family."

Moira coughed to stop herself laughing rudely. Constance pursed her lips slightly but otherwise ignored the maid.

"Abernathy Ambrose," the man said with a faint but genial smile. "You're not intruding but in the future, ma'am, I would appreciate it if you used the front door. I don't like company coming in through the back way."

"Oh," said Constance. She didn't like to be instructed but the man was fairly handsome so she decided to let it pass and opted for a demure position. "Of course. It's a pleasure to meet you, Abernathy."

"Ambrose, please," the man said. "Abernathy was my father's name. I keep it to honor his memory but I go by Ambrose. Or Mr. Ambrose, if you prefer to be formal." He gave her that faint smile again but this time there was a spark in his eyes. "Which I hope you don't."

"Oh," Constance repeated and a hand fluttered to her collarbone in a coquettish manner. She could tell when a man was interested and this man was definitely interested. Her smile took on a dreamy quality. "Ambrose is fine. I prefer to save formalities for formal occasions."

Ambrose's smile strengthened. "I as well." He looked to the maid. "Moira? That'll be all for the day. Thank you."

The redhead's frown darkened and she shot Constance the dirtiest of looks before she left the room in a huff.

The man closed the distance between himself and the blonde woman, stopping just a couple of steps from her. "So to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

She felt her cheeks warm. "Well, I saw your movin' van the other day and was curious to know who was settlin' into the old place. It's been empty so long I was beginnin' to think it'd be vacant forever."

"A house with the history this one has," said Ambrose. "Isn't very easy to sell."

"The agent told you the hist'ry," Constance remarked.

"Yes," agreed Ambrose. "But disclosure meant she only mentioned the last family's deaths. I did my homework long before I put an offer on the place."

Constance looked puzzled. "You did?"

He nodded. "I sought this place out specifically because of its history." He glanced up and around the kitchen like he was seeing something there that the naked eye couldn't. "And its... ambience."

"I see," she said, even though she didn't really. His attitude made her suspicious. "Why would you seek out a house that people have died in so many times?"

"You're familiar with its history too."

"Yes," she said. "I've lived near it for many, many years."

"And in it," Ambrose reminded.

She frowned. "You_ have_ done your homework."

"Yes," he said. He was standing right next to her. He was tall enough that the proximity meant she had to look up to maintain eye contact. He smiled. "I know a lot about you, Constance, and your family."

Her heart fluttered again, stirred by a rush of pleasure and dread. "You... You know about my son?"

He nodded. "I know all about Tate Langdon and his unfortunate demise."

She glanced away. He reached to gently tuck a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. Her gaze snapped back to his face. He was putting off the signals of a very interested male but there was another layer to his approach that felt downright predatory. She wasn't used to being viewed as prey.

"I know many things," he said in a more intimate tone. "If we're to be good neighbors... It would be wise to keep that in mind."

Constance wasn't sure whether that was a challenge, a threat, or simply advice. She didn't know how to react - a situation she wasn't accustomed to dealing with. "A little knowledge can be deadly in this house."

He smiled a broad smile. His incisors seemed sharper than normal to her but that was probably just a trick of the light. "Curiosity killed the cat... But satisfaction brought him back."

She faked a smile. She was feeling odd. Not afraid but definitely unsettled. She decided she would have to visit her son later. "Well. I should be going. I have... family. Next door. But do feel free to drop by. I'm just next door, to the left."

She let herself out the back way then, forgetting what he'd said about not wanting her to use that door. She glanced back but didn't see him at any of the windows. She couldn't shake the persistent feeling that the new owner was not as gentlemanly as he seemed.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Even Constance is creeped out by the house's new owner. And Patrick's true feelings are showing through. I was surprised when he reacted to Nikki the way he did. I'm guessing they're not going to play together anymore after that. Hard to say though... eternity's a long time.

Next chapter: The house has another new occupant, one that has nothing to do with Ambrose. Also, Violet catches up with Patrick. She was expecting to see Tate right after Halloween...

Check out my Profile for music suggestions. See you in a few!


	3. Chapter 3 - The Waiting Game

...

It was almost noon and Patrick still hadn't seen any of the people he wanted to. He poked around on the laptop to keep his thoughts occupied so he didn't stress too much about what was taking so long or whether Chad needed his help. Or if he could help if it was needed.

"Excuse me?"

The voice belonged to a teen girl with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a Westfield High cheerleading uniform. Patrick squinted at her. He didn't know her but he had seen her around the outside of the house before, on Halloween.

"What are you doing here?" he said, blunt in his surprise.

She looked strained. "I don't know. This morning I just... I had to come. I tried to leave. I did! But I keep popping back in every time I step out into the street."

Pat stared at her. He did a little quick supernatural math. "Did you come in the house on Halloween?"

She nodded slowly, ponytail bobbing with the motion.

"Well," said Patrick. "I'm no expert but I'm guessing you're stuck here."

"Stuck here?" she said, dismayed. "But I don't belong here!"

Patrick snorted. "None of us do. But here we are."

"We?" the girl said. "How many people are here?"

"Never took a full head count," shrugged Pat. "I'd guess maybe twenty or thirty ghosts."

She looked pained and went to sit down in one of the boxy black chairs Ben had in the settee. "But why me?"

"We all wonder that," said Patrick. He shut the laptop down and closed it. "What's your name?"

"Chloe. Chloe Staples."

"I'm Patrick," he said. "Well, Chloe. Like I said... I'm no expert but I'd say you've been claimed by this place. Tate blew up your old haunt last night, right?"

She nodded slowly. "How did you know?"

Pat gave her a dry smile that lacked humor. "Word spreads fast in a place this crowded." He was tempted to leave it at that but decided to cut the girl a break. "I'm sort of like a dad to Tate."

She looked surprised. "Sort of?"

"It's complicated," he said with a shrug. "It's like... a post-mortem foster arrangement. My partner and I try to keep him in check. Things got a little crazy last night."

"No shit," she said flatly. "So. What? I'm stuck here now instead of school? What about the others? Why aren't they here too?"

Pat shrugged again. "Couldn't say. My guess is it's because you actually crossed the threshold into the house. But who knows, with this place?"

She rubbed her eyes and sighed. "What do I do now?"

"Try not to go insane from boredom," Patrick suggested, wondering privately why she was asking him.

"Great," Chloe grumbled. "At least at school I had plenty of space and friends."

Patrick didn't have much sympathy for her. He'd lost a lot more than that when he got stuck in Murder House. "We all do what we can to get by."

"Where do I sleep?"

"That's the tricky part," said Patrick. "As many people as there are in this place, trying to find a spot to call your own isn't easy. You might want to try the second floor. Chad, Tate and I generally stick to the third floor and the kitchen. The kitchen's pretty much free turf. Everyone shares it, more or less."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you use the kitchen?" asked Chloe. "You're dead, right? Dead people don't eat."

"We do," said Patrick. "It beats sitting around being bored all the time. Going through life motions eats up time, makes more chores and gives us a semblance of normalcy. It's either that or - like I said - go nuts from boredom."

The cheerleader folded her arms over her middle. "Do you know where I can find Ben?"

Patrick made a sour face. "I wish. I need to talk to him myself."

She sighed. "Well... Are. Are there any rules here I should know?"

Pat peered at her. He'd never heard that one before. "Just don't mess things up. There are ghosts here who really hate it when anyone makes messes or trashes the house. And if you see something in a hooded black rubber suit... You'll want to avoid it. It could hurt you."

"What?"

"It's a haunted house," Patrick said. "There are monsters here."

"Great," Chloe said dourly. "I thought ghosts couldn't be hurt."

"We can't be killed," corrected Pat. "We can hurt plenty."

"Well, at least I can heal now," she said. She was trying to look at the bright side.

Patrick was beginning to find her company tedious, even if she was effectively keeping him from worrying too much. "I've got some stuff to do," he lied. "If you want, you can wait here and see if Ben shows up. You can use the laptop."

"Really?" the teen perked up. "Wow. Thanks!"

She had learned quite a bit about computers in the school's office after hours and had discovered some of the fun the internet had to offer. While she booted it up Patrick headed up to the attic to go lift weights in the hope that it would burn off some of his impatience and anxiety.

...

Two hours later Patrick came back down from the attic with plans to have a shower. He'd worked up a sweat and it was one more thing he could do to occupy his time while he was waiting. He was met on the way to the third floor bathroom by Violet.

"Hey," she greeted in a perfunctory manner. "Have you seen Tate?"

His expression tightened. "Not since something yanked him out of bed this morning and disappeared with him."

"What?"

Pat used the towel around his neck to mop the sweat from his temple. "You heard me. That rubber suit... I found it sitting on him this morning. When it saw me it grabbed him and... I don't know. I don't know how it did it but it took him up into the shadows. Chad's been searching for him since but I haven't seen either one of them all day." He paused, then added gravely: "I haven't been able to find your father either."

Violet folded her arms tightly but it did nothing to keep down the growing anxiety. "You... You don't think he did it. Do you?"

Patrick didn't answer but his grim look spoke volumes.

"Well," she said, shifting her weight. "Why would he? I mean, Tate trusts him."

"Maybe it wasn't him," Pat conceded, though grudgingly. "It's possible the suit's moving on its own and has both of them."

Violet's worry bubbled up to the surface, evidenced by her expression. "Can it do that?"

"I don't know, Violet," he admitted. "I have seen it move on its own before. It tried to attack me once. Tate and I... We burned it and threw it in that hole but I guess that just wasn't good enough."

The teen girl frowned and shifted her weight again, trying to process everything at once. "But where could they go?"

"Beats me," admitted Patrick. "Chad... He." He paused to sort out how to describe what he saw. "He sort of melted. Into the house. I've heard Tate talk about 'going into the walls' before but I thought he was talking about a crawlspace or something. I really don't know what's going on."

For the first time since she'd known the man she saw something vulnerable in his expression. Worry? Fear? It was masked under a frown before she could put a name to it. But it unsettled her all the more to know a strong guy like Pat might be experiencing either of those things.

"My mother knows things about the house," she said. "She's... kind of like Chad that way." So was Nora but Violet considered her was too unreliable to ask for help. It was a severe underestimation of how strong Nora's bond was with Tate but the girl couldn't know that. "I could ask my mom if she can help."

"You think she'll help Tate?" Pat said, not believing it for an instant.

Violet felt awkward. "Well. No. Maybe not. But I'm sure she'll try to find my dad if she knows he's missing."

Patrick nodded. "Okay. Yeah. Why don't you ask her then." He watched the girl head off then he added: "Be careful, little sister. We're dealing with shit here we don't understand."

She glanced back and nodded. Then she went to find her mother.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Short chapter, I know. There's a couple in this episode and 8 chapters in total. It just divided up best that way.

So what do you think? Is Ben the bad guy? Or is he just another of the house's pawns? Or a victim himself? Maybe he's all three? He certainly didn't do Chloe any favors.

Next chapter: Will Patrick's wait ever end? Or is he going to have to get used to the afterlife without his family? Guess you'll have to come back later to find out.


	4. Chapter 4 - Shades of Gray

_Lotte Kestner's _I Want You _during the writing of this chapter. __  
_

* * *

**2018 - November 2, just past midnight**

Patrick had finally gone to bed. He didn't particularly want to sleep but it was the best way he could blow time without going stir crazy from the wait. After tossing and turning for hours he finally found sleep. He was dormant for about two hours when a cold hand on his shoulder startled him awake.

"It's me," Chad whispered. "I need your help."

Pat pushed himself up on his elbows and squinted through the darkness at the other man's silhouette against the moonlit window. "Help? What?"

"Shh," said Chad. "I've found him. But he's being restrained."

"What? Who's restraining him?"

"Shhh!" Chad hissed. "We have to move quickly and _quietly_. I can't get Tate to respond to me but I think you can. You're going to have to come with me. I can't bring him here."

Patrick distrusted the situation but his concern for their ward pushed to the front of his feelings. "Where is he?" he whispered as he got out of bed. "What's restraining him? Is it Ben?"

"I'm not sure what it is," Chad said quietly. "If it's Ben, he's changed."

"Where are they?"

"I'll show you."

Patrick was ready to follow Chad but the shorter man didn't lead him anywhere. He just held out a hand. Pat hesitated then took it. The world shifted, blurred and swirled in a sickening way that made Patrick appreciate how it must feel to be inside a blender. Suddenly he was freezing cold. It was a cold that cut clean through him, a cold that wasn't affected by remembered clothing.

"Don't let go," Chad's whisper reached him but the world was swirling too much to see anything.

The blurring slowed and stopped and the world resolved itself into mist. Everywhere Patrick looked was gray mist. He couldn't see anything but mist.

"Chad?"

"Shh," Chad's whisper was right beside him. "Call to him. With your mind."

Patrick frowned but did as Chad said. He concentrated hard on trying to call Tate. After a minute or so, Chad sighed irritably.

"You _have_ to make him answer you!" Chad nagged in a whisper. "Tell him… Tell him he's going to be punished if he doesn't."

"What?" Patrick was, of course, used to disciplining Tate but the idea of threatening in a strange situation like this didn't strike him as a great idea.

"Just _do_ it!" said Chad, losing patience. "If you ever want to see him again, make him answer you!"

Pat scowled and refocused his mental energy. He pushed aside concern and dug for anger instead. It was a bit of a struggle, to his surprise, but he found a kernel of irritation and focused on it. He fed it unpleasant thoughts of Tate deliberately avoiding them; of him choosing to stay with whatever it was he was currently with. He wadded that up with a distinct threat of great bodily harm if Tate continued to ignore him and lobbed the emotional mess into the gray void.

At first it seemed like it was a miss. Then, faint and distant: "Pat!"

Patrick's immediate urge was to call back but Chad had been so insistent on their being quiet that he resisted. Instead he sent the urging again, strong and insistent and angry. Hearing Tate's response fueled his desire to find what he knew was being held back from him and that anger-fueled demand exploded out of him like a volcano.

There was another lag where the fog-muffled silence stretched then abruptly something hit Patrick, cold and wet and hard enough to make him stumble back, though he maintained contact with Chad. The slimy thing grabbed hold of him and he struggled for just a moment before realizing it was Tate.

"It's him! Come on!" Chad said, abandoning whispers. "We have to go! Now! Hold tight to him and me!"

The world swirled and melted and whirled and Pat held tighter than he ever had before. When things stopped spinning and his bedroom had resolved around them again Pat felt like he was going to be sick. He moved to deposit Tate's limp form on the bed and sat down hard, almost missing the mattress.

"Jesus," he swore, putting a hand to his head. He still felt like everything was in a blender though it looked all right. "What the fuck was that?"

Tate groaned and sat up a little. They were all wet and cold from the outside to in. Patrick looked over at Tate, who was incredibly pale and groggy-looking. Chad crowded in then and pushed the teen's wet hair away from his face. He looked at the younger man with open concern.

"Go start the shower," he said with a glance to Pat. "Make it warm but not hot."

Patrick nodded and went to do just that. Chad pulled the soaked clothes off the teen, grateful that the boy let him without a fight. Tate had, in his foggy and drained state, dropped into the same passive behavior he'd always shown his caregivers when he couldn't care for himself. Once Tate was undressed Chad wrapped him in the robe he'd given him last Christmas. It hadn't seen much use since but it came in handy just then.

"Can you walk?" asked Chad.

Tate nodded though it was an automatic response. When he tried to stand his legs were wobbly. Chad sighed and grabbed Tate's nearest arm to put it over his shoulders.

"Come on," he said. "I can't carry you when you're this big."

"Sorry," Tate mumbled. He didn't age down though.

Chad did what he could but the going was awkward. Fortunately Patrick had the presence of mind to come check on them after he got the shower to the right temperature. Seeing the struggle, he stepped in, scooped Tate up and carried him the rest of the way. Relieved of the burden, Chad gathered towels and a few washcloths.

Patrick took the robe off and helped Tate into the shower. The spray of warm water felt incredibly good to Tate. He felt frozen from the inside and the warm water felt like it was thawing him out. He sighed and shut his eyes and leaned against the wall of the shower. He hadn't been so drained since he'd died.

"I'm tired."

"You can sleep after you're clean," Chad said as he soaped up a washcloth. "Here."

He shoved the cloth into Tate's hand. The teen took it but he didn't do anything with it. He just held it and leaned. Chad frowned.

"Tate," he said. "You need to get that slime off of you."

Patrick didn't wait for a response. He took Tate's hand and made him wash his other arm with the soapy cloth. That worked as long as Pat was puppeting him but the moment he stopped, Tate stopped.

"Dammit!" Chad swore. He soaped up another wash cloth. "You take the bottom half," he told Pat. "I'll do the top. Then get him into some pajamas. He's useless like this."

"It's not his fault," said Pat but his tone was mild. He knew what was really driving Chad's irritation. Patrick was concerned too and it made Chad's moodiness bearable. He took over washing the teenager's lower half. The cold seemed to be coming from it. Where it touched them, it made Chad and Patrick cold too.

"I _know_ it's not his fault," said Chad, sounding just as pissy as before. "But it's still _very_ inconvenient. Why does supernatural bullshit always have to be so Goddamned _messy_?" He scrubbed Tate's shoulders briskly, sloughing ectoplasm off before moving to his face.

Tate flinched and made faces at Chad's rough touch. Patrick tried to be gentle but the clingy stuff didn't give easily. It was like rubber cement. But between the two of them, they eventually got all of it off of Tate and him out of the shower and bundled in a beach towel.

"I'm showering next," said Chad peremptorily to Patrick. "You should go after me. Stay with him till I get out."

"You don't have to be such a bitch," Pat said.

"When I'm no longer _covered_ in ghost shit," snapped Chad. "I won't be!"

He shed his clothes then, stepped into the shower and yanked the curtain closed. Patrick shook his head then looked atTate, who was regaining some of his color.

"Can you walk?"

Tate nodded and he tried. He had to lean on the wall a couple of times for balance but he was quickly regaining his strength. He was able to put on the pajamas Pat handed him, without help. Then he curled up on his bed. Patrick tugged off his wet and slimy t-shirt and tossed it onto the heap of beach towel. Then he sat down on the bed and looked at Tate.

"You okay?"

Tate gave a little nod. "I'm tired."

The corners of Pat's mouth tugged downward. Just the idea of sleep brought mental images of Rubber Man storming back. What if it wasn't Ben? What if it was just an empty suit? But where, then, was Ben? Had it already gotten rid of him? Or was it restraining him, like it had Tate? Patrick knew too little to know what to do next. None of his gut impulses seemed right and there were far too many questions.

"Go ahead and rest," he said. "I'll sit with you. When Chad gets here I'm going to go get cleaned up and he'll sit with you then."

Tate didn't understand the need for being sat with but he was too spent to argue or even question the plan. He just nodded again and then he shut his eyes. Then he must have slept because he was awakened when he felt the bed move. He panicked for an instant because it was dark and he had no idea where he was or what was happening or how much time had passed.

"Shh," said Chad. He smelled like soap and shampoo and that designer deodorant he insisted on buying. "It's just me."

It was assurance enough. The teen relaxed again and shut his eyes once more. He felt the bed shift again as Chad lay back down beside him. Tate dozed a while longer, waking again when Patrick joined them on his other side. Tate was exhausted from three straight days of hell so he let sleep claim him again without a fight. Wedged between the two men, it felt safe. It felt like home.

...

Patrick didn't sleep that night once he joined the other two in Tate's bed. He stayed there beside them for the rest of the night, keeping silent watch over his unorthodox family. Without knowing what it was they were defending against, he couldn't afford to let his guard down while the other two were unconscious. It wasn't until Rubber Man's latest invasion that Pat understood just how important his family life had become to him, regardless of how unusual the arrangement was. It wasn't until then that he realized just how awful being alone was.

Nothing came to disturb them in the night. Shortly after dawn Chad stirred and woke. He hadn't slept his best, being used to sleeping alone. Waking up with Tate's arm over his neck wasn't pleasant but Chad was gentle when he pushed the arm off. Once free, he sighed, sat up and shoved his pillow behind him as a wedge against the headboard. He looked at the sleeping teen and then at Patrick, who offered him a faint half-smile.

"I forgot how much he kicks," Chad muttered quietly.

"Almost as much as you," said Patrick, smile growing just a little.

Chad was not amused. "At least I don't have ice-cold feet. Even before you died it was like sleeping with the Titanic."

"It wasn't that bad."

"Says you," huffed Chad, though he kept it quiet. "You weren't the one having to put up with it."

"No," agreed Pat. "I had to deal with your tooth-grinding."

"I do_ not_ grind my teeth!"

"Uh-huh," said Patrick in that tone that said otherwise.

Chad rolled his eyes. "I'm going to go make breakfast. I want him short and combed in an hour."

"Chad," Pat said. "We should let him sleep."

The dark-haired man got up but paused to look back at the other guy. "If he's so tired, he can go back to bed afterward. We're not throwing off our _whole_ day on account of some rubber-clad idiot who can't keep his hands to himself."

"You're the pinnacle of modern parenting," said Patrick sardonically.

"Don't I know it," replied Chad, refusing to be baited.

He left then and the room got quiet. Patrick shifted to his side and propped his head with one hand. From that position he watched Tate sleep. The teen was still a bit pale but seemed at ease. His hair was a mess - sleeping on it while it was wet had turned it into a rat's nest. Normally Patrick didn't support Chad's weird hang-up about Tate's hair but it was a terrific mess that morning.

Pat brushed the blond mop back from Tate's forehead. The young man stirred, brows pinching together briefly as he fought consciousness. Then his dark eyes opened, confusion registering as he tried to sort out where he was and when. He focused on Patrick and the confused look eased. Then he smiled.

"Hey," said Pat.

Tate shut his eyes and stretched hugely. He drew a deep breath and released it in a long sigh. Then he went limp again and lay there for a few more seconds. He tried to remember what happened the night before but it was all a blank. So he tried to recall his last waking memories and with some effort found Westfield. His initial impressions of that event were of fire and tears. So he didn't dig deeper into that memory but skirted past it, trying to remember what happened between the school grounds and home. But there was nothing after the explosion at Westfield till he woke up just now. He couldn't remember how he got home or when or with whom. He knew that probably wasn't a good sign.

When he opened his eyes again he saw Pat still looking at him. "Hi," said Tate.

Patrick's mouth tugged in a hint of a smile. "You okay?"

Tate's expression flickered. He wasn't in pain but he still had a bad feeling about what he wasn't remembering. "Yeah. I think so."

"We thought we'd lost you."

Tate gave him a funny look. "What do you mean?"

Patrick didn't want to explain. Not right then; not without Chad's help. So he didn't. He just leaned in and kissed the young man.

The move came as a surprise to Tate but it felt a lot better than wrestling with what might have happened on Halloween night. It also helped him ignore the fact that Patrick hadn't answered his question. They kissed for a while before Pat's hand began to roam. The simple contact brought Tate a rush of carnal urge and strange anxiety that he immediately traced to last night and a room full of jocks. He gasped involuntarily and tried to box the memory before it got out completely.

"You okay?" Pat asked again, hand pausing where it was.

Tate wrestled with his inner demons a bit longer then forced a nod. He wasn't going to let the dead jocks bother him when they weren't even around. "Yeah. I'm cool," he said.

He initiated another kiss just to bury it all. It was made doubly uncomfortable by the nagging thought Tate couldn't shake: He needed to see Violet. Thinking about her at such a time was uncomfortable. He had a strong suspicion she wouldn't approve of what was going on. It might even cause a fight. Which would suck.

So he dove into the moment with all kinds of misgivings, issues that dissolved as soon as pleasure stepped on stage. He was able to shake it all off in the midst of what was, for them, a fairly mundane joining. Unhurried, mellow; Patrick took his time reestablishing his sense of control over the soul that had nearly been taken from him the night before. It took them both a while to reach orgasm.

Afterward Tate lay sprawled on his back, staring at the ceiling without seeing it. Cold reality crept back in to freeze out the warm feeling of security he'd achieved for just a few minutes. He rolled over and pressed his face against the bigger man's side. It wasn't a hug or even a cuddle, but his personal, passively demanding move. His action had no conscious thought behind it. He was subconsciously trying to put his back to what was out there. But it was nice when Patrick put a strong arm around him. They stayed like that, not talking but simply existing and resisting the past and future, until Chad urged them to join him downstairs.

...

* * *

Author's Note: I rewrote the last part of this chapter three times in an attempt to get it to end differently. I kept failing and gave up on after this last version. Talk about spirits that can't keep their hands to themselves. Patrick's a very strong-willed character. I guess that's why Chad needed him but still. He's the biggest culprit of plot derails that I've had in this series.

So next chapter: The two households try to figure out how to defend themselves against the unknown. Also: Tate and Violet finally catch up post-Westfield.


	5. Chapter 5 - Plan of Action

...

"Well, of _course_ we need a plan," Chad said as he scooped another serving spoon full of Denver scrambled eggs onto Tate's plate. "But it would help to know what we're planning against. Or whom."

Tate, aged down to his child form, waited for Chad stopped scooping then he set to picking all the green bits out of the eggs. He added them to the small pile already on the edge of his plate, victims from the first serving. "It's not Doctor Harmon," he said with quiet insistence.

Patrick wasn't convinced. "You said yourself you don't remember what happened. How can you be sure?"

Tate shrugged. "Doctor Harmon wouldn't do that." He shoved eggs into his mouth.

Pat sighed roughly. It was a circular debate they'd already been through with no winners. So he abandoned it for the time being. "Whatever or whoever did it," he said as patiently as he could. "We have to assume they'll be back."

"You know what they say when you assume," said Chad in a mommy-knows-best tone.

Patrick frowned. "You're really not helping."

"What?" Chad said defensively, setting his fork down. "I'm just saying that we can't really assume anything at this point. For all we know, it was that weird man who bought the place and he'll never do it again."

"Why would he want to kidnap Tate?"

Chad rolled his eyes ceiling-ward. "Do I _look_ like I have the mind of a kidnapper?"

"I think it was the house," Tate threw in.

The dark-haired man favored him a flat look. "It wasn't the house."

"It could have been," said Tate. He grabbed his toast and smeared butter on the edges.

"It _wasn't _the house," repeated Chad with even less humor.

"It doesn't matter," Patrick interjected. "Whatever it was, we should be ready in case it comes back."

"And how are we going to do that?" asked Chad, still sounding pissy. He didn't take kindly to his house being picked on when it hadn't done anything. This time. "Sleep in shifts? Set up anti-personnel booby traps? Call the Ghostbusters?"

Tate laughed. He couldn't help it. Calling the Ghostbusters sounded like a great idea. "Yeah, but then they'd bust all of us and we'd all be stuck in ghost prison together."

Patrick rubbed his eyes. "Tate. Be serious."

"Why?" the boy asked. "It's funny."

"No. It's not," said Pat. "This is serious business. You don't know what Chad had to go through just to find you."

Tate sobered and looked over at the gay prep. "Thanks."

Against his will a look of muted pleasure surfaced on Chad's face and Tate knew he'd said the right thing.

"Well, I don't see that there is much we can do," said Chad. He inspected his plate and decided he was done eating so he carefully arranged his silverware across it and then pushed the lot toward the center of the table. "We could talk to the priest, I suppose. Maybe he could help."

"I don't know," hedged Patrick.

Tate looked dubious as well. But he couldn't deny there was so sense to what Chad was saying. "But how can we get him over here?"

"We don't have to," said Patrick. "He's over at your mother's house."

"Yeah? So?" said Tate. "What're we supposed to do? Throw paper airplanes with notes in them asking him to come over?"

If that had come from Chad it would have been snarky. As it was, Tate was serious.

"No," said Patrick. "We can walk."

"Nuh-uh," said Tate. "It's not Halloween anymore."

"Doesn't matter," said Patrick. "Whatever's got us locked to this place... it's extended. We can get to your mother's house now."

"I thought that stopped after Halloween," said Chad.

Patrick shook his head. "November first Nikki said she made it past Constance's house before she was thrown back here."

"I suppose we could try," said Chad slowly. He was more interested in testing the barrier theory than talking to Father Jeremiah.

Tate poked at his leftovers and considered what it all meant. If he could get to his mother's house, that meant he could see Michael whenever he wanted to. Whether or not he was taking drugs. And surely his mother wouldn't mind him not listening to Doctor Harmon if she thought he was the one behind taking Tate. Maybe blaming the doctor wasn't such a bad idea after all.

"Can we go today?" he asked.

The other two looked at him then at each other.

"After breakfast cleanup," Chad decided.

"I need to go see Violet first," said Tate. "Okay? I promised her I would after- after Westfield."

"I saw her briefly last night," said Patrick. "She knows you're okay."

"That's good," said Tate. "But I still want to see her. Okay?"

Chad folded his hands. "Fine but don't be all day about it. I want to talk to the friar before nightfall."

…

Tate could call to Violet but he wanted to go to where she was. He had shifted to his normal age and wanted to find her rather than the other way around. It was easy enough to do. She was in the first place he looked: Her bedroom. It had been his bedroom, at one time. It still felt like his room to him even though it was her stuff that always filled it when she let him in.

She looked like she was going to say something when she opened the door to him but a tidal wave of emotion conquered her will to stay reserved. She grabbed him, pulled him into the room and into a fierce hug.

"I thought-" she started but she didn't want to finish the sentence.

"I know," he said. He put his arms around her. It felt so very, very good to hold her. "You thought you'd lost me."

"I thought you were a jerk!" she said, suddenly pulling back from him. She smacked his chest with her open palm and glared up at him. "You shit! What was with ditching out and going to Westfield alone? We had a plan!"

He blinked at her, surprised at her reaction. Then he smiled. He knew she was mad but he could tell the reason was because she cared. And that meant so much to him, he couldn't help but be happy. "Sorry," he said, unapologetically. "I guess I got carried away."

"Bullshit," she said. Some of her anger had cooled once vented but her chin was still set stubbornly. "You ditched us deliberately."

"I had to," he said.

And then it all came rushing back to him: The weight room. The look on her face when she saw him from the doorway. He blinked a few times but it was too late to rope the memory back in.

Violet took advantage of the lapse. "Next time we make plans, you'd better not stand me up."

For him, it was reassurance enough that she wasn't going to let what she saw that night in that room affect the way she thought of him or treated him. There was no need to talk about it. It would just go away. He wanted to laugh but his eyes leaked instead.

"I'm sorry," he said and he meant it this time.

"Yeah," she said and a hint of a smile tickled the corners of her mouth, making that little dimple appear over the left side. "You _are_ sorry." It was a gentle tease.

And then she kissed him. He was so surprised by the sudden move that he just stood there frozen for a moment. Then he hugged her close, tightly, and kissed her back. He tried to convey through that kiss just how much he missed her; how much he loved her and wanted her and couldn't be without her. The kiss lasted a long, long time.

…

"You should know," she said to him later. They were sitting together on her bed. "My dad's missing. I don't... I don't know if something's got him or-" She didn't want to even think about the 'or', much less say it aloud.

"Something took me," he said. "A couple of nights ago."

"I know," said Violet. "Patrick told me. But... Where were you? How'd you get back? What was that thing that took you?"

Tate shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know. I don't remember any of it. The last thing I remember, I was going to sleep." He thought about it more and shook his head again. "I really can't remember any of it."

"There are other ghosts missing," said Violet. "I asked around. There's a lot of people missing. The twins. The exterminator. The nurses. It's like they've just… disappeared."

"Maybe they left," Tate suggested.

"Left?" echoed Violet. "I don't think they've left. They can't. I'd say it's more likely that they were grabbed by whatever took you."

He shrugged, unconcerned. Ben was the only one missing that he even cared about and he had a suspicion that the doctor wasn't in danger.

"Have you seen the new owner?" Tate asked, shifting subjects without warning.

It had been a while since they'd communicated regularly so it took Violet a moment to follow his train of thought. "I- No. I guess not. I mean, I knew there was one but... I've been too busy to notice."

She kind of felt badly. It had been so long since the house had a new tenant that she hadn't even thought to try to scare him off. With her dad not talking to her mom, plans like that just didn't get made.

"What's he like?" she added, in an attempt to appease her inner guilt.

Tate shook his head. His blond fringe sank to half cover one eye. "I don't know. I don't think I've seen him. If I have, I don't remember it. But I don't think I have."

"Why bring him up then?"

"Because," Tate said simplistically. "Chad said maybe he was the one wearing the suit when it took me. But Pat thinks it might be your dad."

"Why would my dad do that?" asked Violent, nose wrinkling a little. "He likes you."

"That's kind of what I said," Tate agreed. "I don't know. I think maybe it's neither of them."

"Who would it be then?" she said.

"I don't know. Whatever made it move that one time. Whatever it was, it wasn't human," Tate said. He gave an involuntary shudder. "It wasn't your dad, for sure."

"I'm not sure if that comforts me or not," said Violet, only half-joking.

He snuggled up to her. "I'm going next door with Chad and Patrick to talk to my mother and the priest she lives with. He might could help us with an exorcism or something."

Violet wasn't sure she liked that idea, the notion of exorcising a ghost house she happened to haunt. But she also didn't really believe stuff like that worked. "Be careful," was all she said at the time.

Then she kissed him again.

The kiss graduated to another full-blown make-out session, only this one went horizontal since they were on the bed and it was there. She surprised him again when she reached down to massage his crotch. Tate was pretty sure she'd said she wanted to take things slow. But her hand confused him and now he wasn't so sure that wasn't just a dream or him hearing only what he wanted to, like his mother accused him of.

He didn't want to think of his mother though. He just wanted to think of Violet's hand and how nice it felt. He broke the kiss though he didn't move far away.

"Do you want to..?" Tate asked but he hesitated on the wording. He didn't want to be crass but he also didn't want to sound silly.

"Yeah," she said, sparing him having to sort it out.

He grinned and they kissed some more, slowly parting with their clothes. He petted and kissed her body, delighting in the way she curved and smelled. It was nothing like being near Constance. He sought Violet's mouth and kissed her, penetrating her at the same time. He heard her breathing shift.

_Like a Catholic school girl._

He forced the stray thought out. He wasn't going to let anyone or anything ruin his moment. He opened his eyes and watched Violet the whole time they had sex, though it made her a little uncomfortable to be scrutinized so steadily while she was in the throes of pleasure. For him it was better than shutting his eyes and letting the bad thoughts take over. With his eyes open, he could love her better.

...

Later that afternoon Tate, Patrick and Chad headed next door together. Violet had told them what to expect but decided to stay behind, so Constance wouldn't think she'd led the others over. But the three guys stopped just as she had when she first went over, right at the property line marked by the hedgerow. Then Tate took the proverbial plunge and stepped forward. He smiled when he didn't get transported back to the mansion behind them.

"Yeah," he said, glancing back. "It works."

Together the three of them headed for the enclosed front porch. The vines that crept up the trellis that enclosed the stoop had been ravaged by the sudden cold weather and were all brown at the edges of their leaves. Tate pushed the button to ring the doorbell.

After a few seconds the door swung open to reveal Constance, still wearing her dressing robe, a cigarette in one hand. She looked at the group of ghosts then focused on the shortest: Her son wearing his little boy guise.

"I told you to stay in your room till I came for you," she said to him, ignoring the obvious issue of the lot of them even being there. She had known it was only a matter of time before they figured out they could get to her house.

Tate fidgeted under her steely gaze. He'd sort of forgotten that he'd been sent to his room. "Something's happened," he said.

"There's something going on next door," said Patrick, trying to shift Constance's attention from her personal issues to more pressing matters. "Something took Tate the other night. Chad and I were able to pull him back but-"

Chad fluttered a hand at his partner irritably. "Let me," he insisted. Then he put on a sincere face, stuffing down his dislike for the blonde woman in an effort to communicate. "Someone or something in that house wants your son. Like Patrick said, it got him - briefly. If you don't want it to claim him for good you ought to let us in so we can talk about what it is and what we're going to do about it."

Constance's expression grew grim. She swept all three of them with a hawk-like stare then stepped back. "Come on in," she allowed. "There's coffee in the kitchen."

"Is Father Jeremiah here?" Patrick asked as he entered.

"Yes. He and Michael are havin' breakfast."

"Good," said Chad. "We may need him."

Tate darted ahead, wanting a chance to say hi to Michael before Serious Business reclaimed center stage. When he got to the kitchen he found the boy sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal and a plate of scrambled eggs. Father Jeremiah was there at the table as well.

"Well hello, Ethan," the man greeted. "It's a surprise to see you so early." Not to mention over at their house. With the exception of Halloween, he had never seen the boy out of his house.

"Hi," Tate/Ethan greeted them both. "Are you done?" He asked Michael. "Want to go play?"

"Chad, Patrick," Jeremiah nodded as those men joined them. He caught the grim expression Constance wore as she followed them into the kitchen. "What brings you over?" He knew something was up. There were too many unusual things about the moment.

"You need to stay here," Patrick said to Ethan.

But Chad intervened. "Let them play in the front room," he decided. "If we need him, we'll call him in."

It was Chad's thinking that they'd have a more productive conversation without the presence of two high-energy sociopaths slowing things down. But after the broken wrist - which left Michael still wearing a cast - he wasn't inclined to send them too far out of sight either.

Michael looked to Constance with hope. "Can I be done?"

She looked at his plate critically. Normally she would tell him to eat a little more but there were important matters to tend to so she nodded. "Go on and play. And be. Good." She gave both her little monsters the sternest of looks, prompting innocent nods from the boys that she wished she could trust. Then they ran off together to go play hide and seek in the front part of the house.

Constance turned her attention to fixing up another pot of coffee. "Now what's this you were sayin' about somethin' wantin' my son?"

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Merry Christmas! I got Bioshock for a gift and have played it a lot already. It's an older game but I've been wanting to play it since I saw it on the Top 100 Video Games show. It's as cool as the show led me to believe. The ambience is Atlantis meets the 50s meets Silent Hill, in first-person-shooter format. It's got a bit of a steampunk feel along with a twisted carnival undertone. Possessed little girls running around with giant robots as their guardians, drinking people's essence. It's all very weird, scary and fun. The next one I want that looks pretty cool is the Walking Dead game. It's a dialog-driven RPG/adventure. The pie charts of dialog you can choose from look interesting. And lots of zombies in a game is always a bonus to me.

Ahem. My geek is showing. How was your Christmas? Good, I hope.

So. Next chapter: Talking to the priest about Murder House. Also, a ghostly play date is in order.


	6. Chapter 6 - Hide & Seek

...

From a hall window little Margaret watched Chad, Patrick, and the boy she knew as Ethan head across the yard and into the house next door. She had asked her mother several times if she could go play with Ethan and Michael but her mother always said no. Margaret didn't understand why and not understanding led her to sorrow.

But her mother wasn't watching her at the moment. She was busy teaching Angie how to crochet on a circular set of needles. Margaret didn't waste much time thinking it over. She knew she shouldn't go anywhere without telling her mother but she was tired of being cooped up and she wanted to go play.

The little girl stopped in the bathroom to force her burnt features to look normal. It took effort to mask the damage but once she had it fixed she could maintain the illusion without conscious thought. When she looked like her living self again she quietly left the house through the back door. She noticed in passing that there were new things in the kitchen but she didn't care about that.

Feeling terribly brave and more than a little scared, she darted across the yellowed lawn and through the hedgerow without pausing. She didn't know anything about barriers or supernatural darkness; she couldn't sense either. She just knew she'd seen Ethan come that way. When she got to the neighboring porch she hesitated. What if the boys didn't want to play? She thought about going back home but she'd come too far. She had to try.

She lifted her little hand and knocked on the door. It was a light knock, imperceptible to the adults in the kitchen. But Michael heard it. He called a time out in the game and went to the window to peek out. Seeing Margaret, he opened the door and smiled big.

"Hi!" he said happily.

"Hi," she smiled shyly. "Um."

Ethan crowded in behind him to see who it was. He looked at the girl kind of puzzled.

"Hi," she said to him as well.

"Hi," Ethan said back.

They all stood there for a few awkward seconds. Then Michael said, "We're playing hide 'n seek. Wanna play?"

Margaret smiled big then. "Yeah!"

Michael's smile got bigger. "Come in. Ethan's 'it'."

...

"Exorcism is something only specific priests are trained to do," said Father Jeremiah hesitantly. He warmed his cold fingers on his coffee cup and studied the other men across the table. "And I haven't had that sort of training."

"But it can't be that hard," insisted Chad. "I went to parochial school. It's all just memorizing some Latin and waving a censer around."

"It's not quite that simple," said Father Jeremiah. "Not to mention exorcisms aren't a catch-all." He paused, debating what he should share with them. "Look. Whatever it is that hangs over that house... It's bigger than a single ghost. It's..."

He stopped and looked into his coffee cup but there was no guidance to be found there. He had no internal compass to direct him on the matter either, as much as he wanted one. He was afraid the whole situation was some sort of test and he wasn't ready for it.

"It's what?" Constance prompted. She was affecting a disbelieving air but in truth she was worried. The priest was right: The situation was bigger than any one ghost.

He sighed and shrugged. "There's... more than one entity fighting for this area." That statement earned him funny looks all around. He'd been afraid of that. "Fighting is a poor choice of words. What they're... doing. It's beyond the scope of our language. I suppose a better term would be 'sparring'."

Chad's nose crinkled. "Sparring? Like deer getting ready to mate?"

Father Jeremiah cleared his throat. "In a way, yes. But it's not about mating."

"Obviously."

Patrick nudged Chad, earning him a dirty look.

"It's about territory," Jeremiah went on. "One... entity already has established their dominance over this area. Another one wants in."

Constance eyed him hawkishly. "Oh, really?" She lit a cigarette. "And what 'entities' are you speakin' about?"

The priest looked at her and an uncertain expression flickered over his lean face. "Angels. Demons. Take your pick."

The blonde woman's mouth tightened and she sat back in her chair. She folded one arm over her middle and looked hard at Jeremiah. He fidgeted with his coffee cup, wishing her cold stare didn't affect him. He'd never been affected by her glares before she died.

"Demons," scoffed Chad. "Okay. So. What you're saying is our house is being possessed. By demons."

"I don't think it's so outrageous," said Patrick. Chad eyed him but Pat shrugged. "There are ghosts. Why are demons so hard to believe in?"

Chad huffed a soft sound of stodgy disbelief and folded his arms.

Patrick looked back to the priest. "How long have you known?"

Jeremiah lifted his cup for a quick sip while he decided how to answer that question. "It's the reason I came here."

Now they really stared at him.

"It is?" said Constance.

She had that deceptively calm tone Jeremiah had learned to associate with her violent outbursts and tirades. He chose his next words very carefully.

"When... When Michael was born, there was a sign," he said, looking in his cup. "It matched the prophecy. And so I was sent to find him. I was... appointed his caretaker. It's what I've been trained to do since I was young." He took a quick glance around and didn't like the way the others were looking at him so he looked back into his cup again. "Michael's meant to usher in a new age. The... entity that's presided over the Montgomery Mansion has stagnated. Become a... a black hole. It takes but gives nothing back. Michael will help... the other to assert a new... Ahem. A new existence."

Constance sat up and leaned forward. "You're not makin' sense," she accused. "Speak plainly, Jeremiah. A new existence?"

He shrugged. "I don't fully understand it," he admitted. "We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. Change is coming. It's been stretching out since Michael's birth. Surely you've felt it."

She sighed and sucked on her cigarette. "I've felt somethin'," she admitted dourly. She looked at the gay men. "What about you two?"

"Well, that would be why we're here," said Chad matter-of-factly. "Wouldn't it? We couldn't be here otherwise." He offered Father Jeremiah a prissy smile. "We're dead. Have been for years."

Patrick glared at him. Chad widened his eyes innocently. "What?" said the dark-haired man. "We've got a serious problem here. If ever there was a time to stop the charades, it's now."

"You're dead," said Jeremiah. He wasn't all that shocked, really. It explained a lot. "What about Ethan?"

"Dead too," Chad said in a sing-song way. "He's Constance's spawn. We're just his nannies."

Jeremiah shifted his attention to her. She was glaring at Chad but she cleared her expression when she noticed the priest looking at her. She put on a tiny, false smile.

"Well," she said, tapping her cigarette in the ash tray. "Now you know."

"You have two dead children in that house?"

"Yes," said Constance. "Tate and Beauregard. Ethan is Tate."

Father Jeremiah was a little confused. "Why the ruse? Why-"

Chad fluttered a hand at him. "We like to keep him small. He's a lot less trouble when you can pick him up and put him where you want him."

Constance's brow quirked; she privately agreed with that sentiment but she didn't want to say as much out loud where Chad could hear it.

"Why the need for a different name? Why-" started Jeremiah.

"Let's stick to the more important matter of what's happening in our house," Chad redirected. "Is this... demon or whatever. What is it doing? What's going to happen? Why is it trying to take Tate?"

Father Jeremiah shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know much about Tate apart from what I've read in the news and what you people have told me."

"He's Michael's father," Constance admitted, sighing out cigarette smoke. "Conceived after his death."

Jeremiah found clarity in that statement and had another drink from his cup while he processed it. "I suppose," he ventured after he set his cup down. "Whatever's trying to fight off Michael wants to take your son out of the equation as well."

"Well, what does your damned prophecy say?" demanded Constance.

He shook his head. "It's not-" He looked heavenward then drew a deep breath. "The Prophecy isn't one set passage. It's an overall interpretation of several hundred scriptural texts spanning multiple religions. It would take years to explain all of them to you in a way that you could understand."

"Can't you summarize?" asked Patrick.

Father Jeremiah shrugged. "I could try." He thought about it. "When people think of the end of the world they think things will go out with a bang but the truth is that's not how our world works. Change is a slow thing. It creeps up on us all and then one day you look around and realize nothing is like it used to be. There's no one event or thing that's done it. No one person or thing makes the world go from one extreme to the next. It happens slowly. It has been happening over hundreds of years. Michael is just one of the many signs that the change is at its final point."

Chad frowned. "You just can't give a straight answer, can you? It's physically impossible for you."

"You're one to complain about being straight," muttered Constance. She put out her cigarette. "What do you mean, change? What's changin'?"

Jeremiah looked at her and his dark eyes widened. "You have, for one."

Her mouth puckered briefly and her eyes flashed. But it was too late for warning looks.

"Everyone at this table is dead," the priest said bluntly, earning him a very dirty look from Constance for letting her secret out. He pretended not to notice that or the looks of surprise from Chad and Patrick. "And yet you're all still here, talking to me. Ethan. Tate. He's dead too. And yet he's playing with Michael right this minute. I would guess that there are several more people in this city who have shed their mortal form yet linger on despite it."

None of them could argue that. It was true and they all knew it.

"What're you saying then?" Chad said. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable with the revelation being made. "Everyone's going to die and get stuck at home as ghosts? Some fucking afterlife! What about heaven?"

"The meek shall inherit the earth," said Jeremiah.

"I am _not_ meek!" fumed Chad.

"Here, here," muttered Constance, who didn't consider herself meek either.

Jeremiah smiled wanly. "I simply meant that, as a species, humans are fairly low on the power pole. The change will continue to spread. The dead shall rise and the world will adapt as the change spreads."

"Spreads?" said Patrick. He thought of the freedom he'd experienced during October. "So you're saying we're going to... we'll be able to move around freely again?"

There was a pregnant pause then Jeremiah said, "I can't be sure. The Prophecy isn't that specific. But I would guess that eventually, if things keep on as they have, the dead will outnumber the living and it will be their time. Your time."

For a long moment no one said anything. Then: "Well isn't there anything we can do about... whatever it is that took Tate?" Chad said.

Father Jeremiah folded his hands and considered. "Did you see it?"

"I've seen it a couple of times," said Patrick. "It's a-" He glanced at Chad who gained a sudden interest in the coffee cup before him. So Pat went on. "It's a black rubber hooded suit. At least two ghosts have worn it but I've seen it move on its own before. Tate and I tried to get rid of it. We burned it and tossed it down the sinkhole. But it came back somehow. The other night it grabbed him while he was sleeping and pulled him up into the shadows of the ceiling. We had to go get him from this... place."

"It's sort of… another layer of existence," Chad said. "One that overlaps the 'real' world. There are several layers I've found but that one's about as far from the living as it gets. The thing has other souls bound there but I didn't stick around to see who they were."

That was news to Patrick but he didn't say anything. He made a mental note to ask Chad later about what all he knew about that layer of existence. "I thought what took him might be one of the ghosts that wore the suit before but now… I'm really not sure. Like I said - I've just seen it move on its own."

Constance looked downright grim. She'd always considered Tate relatively safe in the mansion. Up till then her greatest concerns were the influence the gay men were having on him and the safety of the living people who came into the house. Now there was a good chance they were all in danger now. "Is there a way to find out what it is?"

Father Jeremiah frowned. "A black rubber suit," he said. "You said it moves in shadows?"

Patrick nodded, not sure why that was so significant.

"I dreamt that thing," the priest said. "At least I thought it was a dream. Constance, you and Michael had nightmares around the same time. Was there a black rubber creature in your dreams?"

Constance shook her head. "I don't remember what I dreamed about. I just know somethin' kept wakin' me up. You could ask Michael about it but I doubt he'd remember now."

Jeremiah shook his head. "No need right now. I'm almost positive this is all related. I did some research but I was looking in the wrong direction, I think." He bit his lower lip briefly as his thoughts raced. "I can perform a Blessing on the room Tate sleeps in," he decided. "It should work to keep whatever it is at bay at least while he's vulnerable. But I can't cover the whole house. I'm not that strong."

"What about us?" Constance demanded.

"Your house is already protected," assured Jeremiah.

"But Billie Dean said the darkness had spread here," the blonde woman insisted. "It's why these," she waved a hand at Chad and Patrick. "People are able to come here. Isn't it?"

Father Jeremiah shook his head. "It's not the same thing. Billie Dean isn't equipped to understand the differences between ghosts and the things that are warring over this domain."

"So what do you have to do?" asked Chad. "_Tell_ me it doesn't involve burning sage and singing campfire songs."

"No," said Jeremiah. "I'll come by tonight if you like. You can see for yourself what happens."

"That's fine," said Chad. "Only you might have to wait. A new tenant has moved in, a living one, and he may not appreciate a stranger barging in to sprinkle holy water on his floors."

"I've met him," said Constance sourly. "There's somethin' weird about that one."

"You mean aside from the fact that he's moving dead bodies into the house?" Patrick said. In response to the odd looks he received he added, "He's got a mummy in a glass case that he had the movers bring in. He had some other display cases too but I don't know what he planned to put in them."

Jeremiah's first and most rational conclusion was that the man might be a museum curator but he wasn't inclined to rely on guessing. It was entirely possible that the man had been deliberately drawn to the place. Knowing what Jeremiah knew of the place's history, the house's new owner could very well be the next John Wayne Gacy.

"We could do it while he's out," suggested Chad. "He leaves the house for long periods, I've noticed. Days, sometimes. It wouldn't be difficult to sneak the padre in after the oddball leaves."

And so that's what they decided to do. Chad knew he could get the man's travel schedule from Moira and so it was just a matter of timing.

...

"It's time to go," Chad announced as he and Patrick headed for the front door.

Ethan popped up from behind the loveseat with an loud "Aww!"

Michael crawled out from under the coats hung on the standing rack near the front door. "But we're still playing!" he objected in exactly the same tone.

Father Jeremiah couldn't help staring at them. Now that he knew how they were related, the similarities were more than striking; they were downright eerie. The boys could be twins.

"Oh, God!" Constance swore. "It's already started."

She'd seen Margaret, who had come up the hall. She'd been searching for the boys in the bathroom when Chad called a halt to the game. They all recognized the girl from the party.

"What's started?" Ethan asked.

Constance shook her head. She'd already had her fill of ghost reveals. "Just. Go on home. All of you." She left the room then and headed for her liquor cabinet in the kitchen.

Margaret looked disappointed but she gave the boys a little wave and left. Michael pouted.

"Do they really have to go?" he asked the priest.

"Yes," said Father Jeremiah. "For now. You can play another day."

"Really?" Michael perked up. "Really-really?"

Jeremiah smiled. "If it's all right with their parents."

"We'll see," Chad inserted before Patrick had a chance to say anything. "Come along, 'Ethan'."

The boy sulked but followed after his fosters. "See you later, Michael." He glanced over at Jeremiah then said, "See ya."

The three left together and went back to Murder House.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Happy New Year! And welcome back to Season 1.5 of American Horror Story!

Suffer the children to come unto... Constance's house. She really didn't want them migrating over. She likes being in control and having ghosts showing up on her doorstep is not her idea of control.

I'm coming to terms with the fact that, no matter how I've tried, this story will not be wrapped up at the end of the Season. There just isn't an end. I've tied up most of the ends that bothered me from the first season and I've answered questions that niggled at me but in the process I've opened up a whole host of new questions to ask and ends that need tying. So I figure after the official Season 1.5 ends I'll do one-shots, to tackle the situations I've started that will need more closure. But I'm still optimistic that this season will reach its conclusion mostly on time.

Check out my Profile if you haven't already, for music suggestions and to find my AHS Season 3 AU. Thanks for reading and double-thanks for the reviews/comments!


	7. Chapter 7 - Best Laid Plans

...

"So he knows who I am now?" Tate asked.

He and Chad and Patrick were all in the dining room; Tate was still in child form. The new owner had kept a lot of the furniture that was already in the house so they didn't have to stretch their memories over the room to make it familiar.

"Yeah," said Pat. "He knows."

"What about Michael? Does he know?"

"Not yet," said Chad. "I don't know that they'll tell him. But that's something you should probably talk to your mother about."

"I don't want him to know," decided Tate.

Chad arched his brows. "Oh? Why not?"

Tate shrugged. "She's right. I'm not father material." He traced an abstract doodle on the table's surface with his finger. "And I like having him as a friend. I haven't had a friend in... forever."

Patrick folded his arms on the edge of the table and leaned on them. "Are you sure you want to keep him in the dark like that?"

Tate shrugged. "Why not? It's not like him knowing would help him any."

Chad topped off his glass of wine. "He might find out whether you want him to or not. Have you thought of that?"

Tate shrugged again. "If he does, I'll deal with it then. But I don't think he will. My mother won't tell him. She doesn't want him to know who I am. And the priest... I d'know. I guess he could tell him but why would he? Besides. If I tell him not to, then he can't."

Chad rolled his eyes. "You can't command a priest like a robot. He has free will, you know."

"Well," Tate said, frowning. He paused. He didn't know what to follow that up with.

"We'll worry about it later," interjected Pat. "I'm more concerned with what he was saying about the dead coming back."

"Uber-religious mumbo-jumbo," declared Chad. "People have been prophesying about the world's end since the dawn of time. He's just another Doe or Jim Jones."

"I don't know," said Tate. "He doesn't seem the Kool-Aid type to me."

Chad humphed. "He does to me. That man's got some serious darkness around him for being a priest. "

Patrick shifted in his seat and made a noise in the back of his throat. Chad eyed him, daring him to argue. Pat met his steely look and his lips tugged into a thin line.

"Do you think we're really going to be able to go where ever we want?" Tate said, ignoring the silent friction the other men were demonstrating. He'd spent over half of his existence held by the house - he found the idea of being able to go out whenever he wanted to exciting and weird.

Chad just found it hard to believe. "No," he said, shifting his attention to the boy. "He even admitted he doesn't know what he's talking about." He had a sip of wine then said, "Predictions of any kind are hardly an exact science, even when they're accurate."

"But you think he can stop the rubber thing from bothering us?" pressed Tate.

"I don't _know_," said Chad, a little exasperated with all the questions - and the fact that he didn't know the answers. "It can't hurt to try."

Tate could tell he was starting to get on the man's nerves and while he wasn't averse to doing that, he had other things he'd rather be doing with his time just then. "Can I go find Violet? I want to tell her what the priest guy said."

Chad peered at him. "I suppose," he said after a moment, hiding his surprise under a display of reluctant permissiveness. "But you'd better come when we call - the first time. I just spent too many hours slogging through the grossest shit to find you. I _don't_ want to have to search more."

"I will," Tate promised then he got up and bounded for the door.

"Tate," Pat said. When the boy paused to look at him he said: "You might want to age up before you see her."

Tate dimpled a grin and then ducked out before changing size.

After he was gone, Chad said to Patrick: "It's so _weird_!"

"What is?"

Chad shrugged and reached for his wineglass. "He's always asking permission to do things."

"Why's that weird?" asked Patrick.

"He doesn't need our permission to talk to other ghosts."

Pat thought about it. "Maybe he likes having to ask. Maybe it gives him a sense of stability. He didn't exactly have the greatest parenting when he was alive."

"I don't know," said Chad, though what Pat said did make some amount of sense to him. "I think he just likes being told what to do."

"I think you like telling him what to do," Pat countered, unable to completely stifle a smile.

Chad pursed his lips. "I like telling_ everyone_ what to do, dear."

...

**That evening...**

Moira carefully mixed the drug she'd gotten from Dr. Montgomery into the cup of hot tea, stirring it up till all the granules were dissolved. Then she added some sugar to counterbalance the faint bitter taste it left behind. It was a recipe she'd given to many of the house's occupants, for the same reason as always: It made them more suggestible. It made them easier for the house to influence; easier for her to influence.

The maid knew if she could just get one person to follow through on her impulses, her body would be found. It was too late for Constance to be brought to justice but that was never the main reason Moira wanted to be found. She wanted someone to know what had happened to her. She wanted someone to care. When she'd disappeared, the only person who came looking for her was her mother. It was awful to feel so disposable. And she hoped that, if her remains were exhumed, perhaps she'd finally be able to leave Murder House. She had done so many wicked things over the years that she didn't hope for heaven but at least Moira would no longer be trapped in the house. The place was like an abusive lover to her and she wanted nothing more than to be done with it.

Once the sugar was dissolved into the tea she gathered the cup and saucer on a tray along with a pot of cream and the sugar bowl. She placed a slice of lemon on the edge of the saucer, added a napkin and carried the lot upstairs. She brought the tray into the master bedroom and set it down on the sideboard just as Mr. Ambrose emerged from the bathroom. He had a towel around his waist and was scrubbing his hair with another.

She presented her sexy young form to him along with a sultry smile. "I brought you some chamomile tea," she said. "For sweet dreams." She bent to adjust the serving tray, just to present him a good view of her perky cleavage.

He smiled and came over. He draped the towel he'd been using on his hair over a nearby chair and glanced at the tea. Then he looked at her again. She hadn't seen him so natural before. His long hair was wild, dark steel gray when damp. His physique was far better most of the previous owners, despite his age. He looked like a man who'd been cage fighting most of his life.

"You take good care of yourself," she murmured appreciatively. She put a hand on his chest, curling her fingers in his gray chest chair. "I love a man who keeps up appearances."

"I try to stay fit," he said. "And eat well." His smile got wider.

She let her hand fall away from him then she picked up the tea cup. "Here. Drink up while it's... warm." She licked her lips to add naughty emphasis to that last word.

"Ladies first," he said, still smiling.

She looked puzzled. "What?"

"Drink it."

Moira smiled, confused by his demand. "But I made this for you."

"I know," he said. "You work so hard, Moira, I want you to enjoy some of the benefits yourself."

"Oh, but it wouldn't be-" she started.

"I insist," he said. His smile faded.

...

Constance heard them before she saw them. It was strange; it was so much like the time she'd caught Hugo cheating on her in that same house. Only this time the gun she carried belonged to the Harmons, not her husband. She'd gone to fetch it when she saw what was happening in the master bedroom. Coming back to the room, she could hear Moira crying, the sound muffled.

Ambrose had the maid pinned to the bed where he'd forced her to drink some of the tea. A lot had gone into the sheets. He'd lost his towel in the struggle, reminding Constance all the more of the compromising situation she'd found her husband in.

There was a loud bang as she pulled the trigger of the gun; the sound shattered her trance-like state. The bullet hit Ambrose in the back of the leg and he reared up, enraged. He turned to see the blonde woman there, gun in her hands, as surprised as anyone at what she'd done.

"You!" he growled and the look of hatred on his face made him look bestial. "You think I don't know what you are? You think I don't know how to handle the dead?" He advanced on the woman holding the gun. "Bitch, I will bind you to a rock and throw you in the ocean!"

Constance retreated. She raised the gun and aimed it at the man's head. She didn't want to kill him - she didn't want a soul like his trapped so close to her and her family. But she was equally sure that she didn't want him living in her house either. There was little time to think.

Then Moira hit him from behind with the lamp. The ceramic base shattered when it hit his head and he went down, not unconscious but temporarily stunned. Blood showed bright red against his tangled mane of steel. The maid sagged to the floor as well, too drugged to stay upright for long.

"Tate!" Constance hollered. "Tate! I need you!"

Her son appeared in the hall just outside the door, in his normal teen form. He didn't have to ask what was going on: He didn't care. His mother needed him and it apparently had to do with the bleeding, naked man on the floor. Assuming the worst, Tate hopped onto the larger man's back even as Ambrose started to rise. The teen grabbed the man's head.

"No, Tate!" cried Constance. "Don't kill him! Hold him!"

Her instructions confused him but Tate obeyed. He grabbed Ambrose's arms and hauled them back behind his broad back roughly. The guy grunted in pain but Tate held him tight. Ambrose struggled and using just the strength of his lower body started to get to his feet, despite having Tate pressing down on him.

"Goddammit!" swore Constance. "Travis!"

The dark-haired young man appeared just moments after she called but it was enough time for Ambrose to get all the way up. Tate held onto his arms but it was an awkward position for him, hanging off the bigger man's back.

Travis froze, unprepared for what he saw. "Whoa," he said.

"Don't just stand there!" Constance snapped. "Help Tate get that man pinned down!"

So prompted, Travis moved to do as instructed. Tate released one of Ambrose's arms in order to throw an arm around his neck. His mother had said not to kill the man but she hadn't said not to choke him into unconsciousness. It was his hope that Travis would take the arm but the brown-haired model, inexperienced with grappling, went for the man's legs instead. He saw blood on one and mistakenly thought he would have an advantage and knock Ambrose off his feet. But the man reached out his newly freed hand and grabbed Travis' shoulder.

A touch and an arcane word was all it took: Pain shot through Travis, stemming from where Ambrose held his shoulder. It was a lot like being Tasered. He was knocked on his ass. He instinctively grabbed at the spot that the man had touched and his fingers squished where it hurt. It was like some of his substance had been siphoned right out of him, leaving it spongier than the rest of him. It hurt more than any other injury he'd taken since death, even Hayden's repeat stabbings.

When Constance saw Travis fall and the weird black mist that puffed up at Ambrose's touch she knew she didn't want the same thing happening to Tate. So she fired the gun. A bullet struck the gray-haired man in the center of his forehead and his eyes went blank. He fell. Tate landed atop him but quickly scrambled to his feet. Moira tried to pull herself up off the floor using the bed but the rumpled blankets slipped toward her as she tugged on them.

"Travis!" cried Constance. She set the gun down on the sideboard and rushed over to him. "Travis, sweetheart, are you all right?"

"Ow," reported Travis. He rotated his shoulder. "That hurt like a sumbitch!"

"What did he do to you?" she asked, crouching down in a way that still managed to be ladylike despite the fact that she did it in a skirt.

"I don't know," the young man said. "It feels like he... Like he sucked up some of me or something. It's weird. Squishy. Feel it." He offered the shoulder to her.

"No," she demurred. She didn't want to cause him more pain and she really didn't want to touch a part of someone that had gone squishy. She looked at the body of the latest victim of Murder House. "Dammit. I didn't want him stuck here! Now we're never gonna be rid of him!"

Tate hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets and looked down at the man in the widening blood puddle. "What should we do with his body?"

Constance sighed. What, indeed? Ben had built a gazebo over the best spot in the yard to hide bodies. It was one of the only places where there weren't pipes or roots as thick as pipes.

"We'll have Charles chop him up," she decided in a resigned way.

Travis shuddered. His body had been sawed in half by the crazy doctor. He didn't like the idea of dealing with the man at all. "Can I sit out?" He tipped his head toward his shoulder. "Injured."

She smoothed his brown hair and gave him a slight smile. "Of course. Tate can carry his corpse downstairs."

Tate frowned. He always had to move the bodies. "What're we going to do with him after Doctor Montgomery gets done with him?"

Constance looked over at her son and lifted her chin regally. "I'll have Jeremiah get rid of the pieces. He's a good boy. He'll do what I tell him to."

"He's not a boy," Tate muttered. He bent to grab hold of the naked dead man's arm.

That's when he noticed the bullet beginning to poke back out of Ambrose's skull. He watched it for a moment to be sure that he was seeing what he thought he was. Sure enough, the warped metal was slowly creeping back out of the guy's head.

"Mama!" he said, surprised. "He's not dead!"

"What are you talkin' about?" she said, just a bit crossly. She was in no mood to be played with. "I shot him in the head. Of course he's dead."

But she'd seen too much in her lifetime to be certain of anything. Constance came over and crouched down to get a closer look. Moira looked over as well but she didn't try to get up off the floor.

"Well I'll be damned," Constance murmured, impressed. Then she looked around at Travis and Tate. "New plan, boys."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Cliffhanger! Roll credits, etc.

Sorry. Had to leave you hanging. But don't worry. We'll jump right back into things next Episode. What will Constance's new plan be? You'll find out soon in the next-to-last Episode: **American Horror Story S1.5: The Other Side**.

The episode ranked "Chuck Palahniuk" on _I Write Like..._ I did not know who this was. Apparently he wrote the book Fight Club, which the film by the same name was based on. So. The first rule about this Episode is: You don't talk about this Episode. The second rule is: Forget the first rule. Talk about it all you like. Share it with friends. Just warn them first that this story might kick their butt.


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